Criminalization of Academics

Feri Amsari, a constitutional law scholar from Universitas Andalas, Indonesia, has recently become the subject of considerable controversy. On 17 April 2026, he was formally reported to the police in Jakarta by LBH Tani Nusantara, who accused him of spreading false information and inciting unrest. The complaint was based on his public criticism of the government’s claim that Indonesia had achieved food self-sufficiency. He argued that such a claim was misleading, pointing to the fact that the country had imported millions of tonnes of rice in the preceding years, and he challenged the government to substantiate its assertion with credible data.

This police report has provoked strong reactions. Farmer groups sympathetic to the government staged demonstrations demanding that the authorities investigate him, while civil society organisations, academics, and human rights advocates have rallied to his defence. They contend that his remarks were part of legitimate academic discourse and that criminalising criticism undermines both freedom of expression and democratic principles. Natalius Pigai, the Minister for Human Rights, publicly stated that criticism should never be treated as a criminal offence, reinforcing the view that the case sets a troubling precedent.

The implications of this dispute are significant. For Feri Amsari personally, there is the risk of legal proceedings that could curtail his academic work and reputation. For Indonesia more broadly, the case raises questions about the resilience of democratic freedoms, particularly the right to question government policy without fear of prosecution. It also touches upon the practical realities of food security, since the debate over whether Indonesia has truly achieved self-sufficiency in rice production remains unresolved.

Civil society’s reaction to the case of Feri Amsari has been varied, though the dominant tone has been critical of the legal measures taken against him. Many civil society organisations, academics, and human rights advocates have argued that reporting Feri to the police represents a restriction on freedom of expression and a threat to academic freedom. They maintain that criticism, particularly when voiced in an academic forum, should be regarded as part of public discourse rather than treated as a criminal offence.

Groups such as YLBHI and networks of academics have openly expressed their support for Feri, stressing that the criminalisation of criticism could set a dangerous precedent for democracy in Indonesia. The Minister for Human Rights, Natalius Pigai, has likewise emphasised that criticising the government must never be considered a crime. This support illustrates the solidarity of civil society in defending the space for free expression.

On the other hand, certain farming groups have backed the report against Feri. They organised demonstrations outside the Jakarta police headquarters, demanding that the authorities proceed with the case. From their perspective, Feri’s statements risked causing unrest and division among farmers and traders.

The assertion that Feri Amsari’s remarks might provoke unrest among farmers and traders is unfounded. His statement was made within an academic context, grounded in data and aimed at evaluating government policy rather than inciting conflict. Academic critique serves to clarify facts and improve public understanding, not to divide communities. To interpret such analysis as a source of agitation is to misunderstand the nature of scholarly discourse, which is built upon evidence and reasoned argument.

Moreover, farmers and traders are not passive recipients of information; they are capable of discerning between constructive criticism and provocation. Feri’s comments questioned the validity of the government’s claim of food self‑sufficiency, a matter that directly affects agricultural policy and livelihoods. Raising such questions is essential for transparency and accountability. Suppressing them under the pretext of preventing unrest risks silencing legitimate debate and weakening democratic participation.

In truth, what threatens social cohesion is not criticism itself, but the criminalisation of those who express it. When academic voices are punished for speaking truthfully, trust between citizens and the state deteriorates. Dialogue, not censorship, is the path to stability.

Taken together, the case highlights a tension between those who wish to safeguard academic freedom and democratic principles, and those who believe Feri’s criticism could harm their interests.

The democratic implications of the case involving Feri Amsari are quite serious, as they strike at the very heart of freedom of expression and academic independence. When an academic is reported to the police simply for criticising government policy, it raises concerns that the space for public debate is being narrowed. A healthy democracy should provide room for criticism, even sharp criticism, as part of the checks and balances on power.

This case also highlights the risk of criminalising dissenting views. If academic criticism is treated as the spreading of falsehoods or incitement, many scholars and commentators may feel threatened and refrain from speaking out. The consequence is a decline in the quality of democracy, since society loses access to critical voices that are essential for maintaining transparency and accountability.

Furthermore, the case illustrates the tension between civil liberties and political interests. Support from civil society organisations and academics underscores the point that democracy is not merely about elections, but also about the freedom to speak and debate without fear. If such freedoms are curtailed, democracy risks becoming a hollow formality, stripped of substance.

In this sense, the case of Feri Amsari is not just about one individual, but serves as a test of the resilience of Indonesia’s democratic system. It poses a fundamental question: is criticism still regarded as an integral part of democracy, or is it increasingly seen as a threat to be silenced?

The criminalisation of criticism has a direct impact on public trust in the state. When citizens see that critical voices—particularly those of academics or commentators who speak with evidence—are subjected to legal action, the impression is created that the government is unwilling to listen. This fosters suspicion and erodes confidence, as people feel that the democratic space, which ought to be open, is instead being restricted.

Public trust in a democracy is built upon transparency, accountability, and openness to criticism. If criticism is treated as a threat, the legitimacy of government can be undermined. Citizens may conclude that the state is more concerned with protecting its image than with improving policy. The result is a weakening of the relationship between government and society, accompanied by sharper social polarisation.

There is also a domino effect. Once one case of criminalisation occurs, the public anticipates that similar measures could be taken against anyone. Fear discourages people from speaking out, while simultaneously deepening mistrust of state institutions. In other words, the more forcefully criticism is silenced, the wider the gulf of distrust becomes.

For this reason, cases such as that of Feri Amsari are not merely about an individual, but about the way in which the state treats its citizens. If criticism continues to be criminalised, public trust will weaken, and democracy will lose its moral foundation.

In many countries, the criminalisation of criticism has been shown to erode public trust in government. When critical voices are subjected to legal action, citizens tend to perceive the state as hostile to transparency, and the legitimacy of democracy is weakened as a result.

Global Examples

1. Europe and America

Strategic Lawsuits Against Public Participation (SLAPPs): Across Europe and the United States, governments and corporations have used lawsuits to silence journalists and activists. Such practices instil fear and lead the public to conclude that the law is being wielded as a political weapon rather than as a safeguard of rights.

LuxLeaks (European Union): The prosecution of whistleblowers in Luxembourg who exposed tax data was widely seen as an attempt to suppress transparency. Public confidence in tax institutions and government authority declined as a consequence.

2. South‑East Asia

Thailand: Labour activist Andy Hall was prosecuted for defamation after criticising conditions faced by migrant workers. Although he was eventually acquitted, the case created the impression that the government prioritised business interests over workers’ rights.

Indonesia: Amnesty International has raised concerns about the new Criminal Code, which includes provisions criminalising insults against the president and state officials. These measures are viewed as opening the door to the suppression of criticism, with the potential to further undermine public trust.

3. Latin America

Argentina and Colombia: Environmental and social activists have frequently been charged with disturbing public order during demonstrations. Such prosecutions are perceived as attempts to silence dissent, thereby diminishing trust in legal institutions.

Impact on Public Trust

Erosion of legitimacy: Citizens see the state as unwilling to accept criticism, weakening political legitimacy.

Social polarisation: Suppressing criticism divides society between government supporters and opposition groups who feel marginalised.

Chilling effect: Academics, journalists, and activists become reluctant to speak out, depriving the public of independent sources of information.

Systemic distrust: Repeated instances of criminalisation can lead to widespread loss of faith in both legal institutions and democracy itself.

The long‑term consequences of criminalising criticism for democratic legitimacy are profound. Democracy fundamentally rests upon public trust that government is willing to listen, weigh, and respond to the voices of its citizens. When criticism is treated as a criminal offence, the message conveyed is that the state prefers silencing dissent to engaging in dialogue. Over time, this erodes political legitimacy, as people feel excluded from the decision‑making process.

Such practices also foster a culture of fear. Academics, journalists, and activists—who should serve as independent watchdogs—become reluctant to speak out. As a result, the quality of public policy declines, since government loses access to the critical input that normally helps refine and improve its direction. Democracy risks becoming a mere procedural exercise, stripped of substantive vitality.

Once public trust has been weakened, it is not easily restored. When citizens come to believe that criticism is treated as a threat, they begin to view government with suspicion. This suspicion can evolve into social polarisation, widespread dissatisfaction, and even a legitimacy crisis that destabilises political institutions. In other words, criminalising criticism not only undermines democracy in the present but also damages the foundation of trust required for democracy to endure in the future.

In conclusion, the criminalisation of academic criticism represents not merely an attack on individual scholars such as Feri Amsari, but a broader assault on the democratic fabric itself. A democracy cannot thrive if its intellectuals, researchers, and educators are silenced for questioning official narratives. The long‑term damage lies not only in the erosion of academic freedom, but also in the weakening of public trust and the hollowing out of democratic legitimacy.

The essential message is clear: criticism must be protected, not punished. Safeguarding the right of academics to speak freely is vital for ensuring transparency, accountability, and the continued vitality of democratic life. To criminalise dissent is to undermine the very foundation upon which democracy rests.

Bahasa

Bumper Cart for the Gentlemen

One must truly marvel at the exquisite strategic genius of the Minister for Indonesian Women’s Empowerment and Child Protection, Arifah Fauzi, who has heroically stepped forward to reinvent the laws of physics using nothing but the power of chivalry. In a move that surely has structural engineers weeping with joy, she has proposed that our railway carriages be reorganised so that the ladies are tucked safely away in the velvet embrace of the middle sections, while the gentlemen are patriotically redistributed to the front and rear to serve as the nation’s premier human shock absorbers.

The brilliance, or we could also call it stupidity, of the Minister’s vision lies in its refreshing simplicity: rather than fretting over the tedious technicalities of track maintenance or advanced signalling following the unfortunate collision at Bekasi Timur, she has suggested that we simply use the male population as a sort of fleshy, moustachioed crumple zone. It is a delightfully nostalgic approach to public safety, effectively transforming every KRL Commuter Line into a high-stakes social experiment where a man’s ticket price now includes the distinct honour of being the first point of contact for an oncoming express train.

By suggesting that the "stronger sex" should occupy the most perilously exposed positions of the train, the Minister has managed to turn a standard commute into a spirited reenactment of a sinking ship, though without the inconvenience of getting wet. It is, quite frankly, a masterstroke of administrative efficiency—reclassifying half the commuting public as disposable safety equipment ensures that, should the worst happen, the impact is absorbed by someone who, according to this sophisticated new doctrine, was biologically designed to be a buffer. One can only assume that the next stage of this revolutionary policy involves replacing airbags in ministerial Volvos with particularly sturdy-looking civil servants.

One can only stand in silent awe of such a breathtaking masterclass in civil engineering, where the complexities of railway safety are solved not by mundane things like automated braking or signal upgrades, but by the strategic deployment of the "expendable" gentleman. It is truly a Victorian romantic’s dream brought to life, reimagining the modern commuter train as a sort of mobile fortress where the ladies are safely ensconced in the citadel of the middle carriages, while the chaps are patriotically stacked at either end to serve as organic, tax-paying buffers.

The public has, quite naturally, been overcome with emotion at the suggestion that a man’s primary contribution to public transport should be his ability to absorb a high-speed kinetic impact. Social media is positively brimming with chaps who are clearly touched to learn that their true calling in life is to function as a human crumple zone, providing a soft, fleshy cushion for the national infrastructure. It is a delightfully refreshing bit of logic: why bother with the tedious expense of upgrading the permanent way when one can simply categorise the citizenry into "those worth saving" and "those who should probably bring a sturdier briefcase for the impact"?

As for the more colourful undertones of the proposal, the populace has found it deeply reassuring to see that, even in the year 2026, we can still rely on the sturdy old pillars of identity and gender roles to navigate a technical crisis. The general consensus appears to be one of profound gratitude that the heavy burden of modern safety standards has been replaced by a system that feels more like a game of high-stakes musical chairs. Indeed, the brilliance of the scheme lies in its simplicity: it transforms the morning commute from a boring journey into a spirited test of chivalry where, for the price of a standard fare, one might just have the honour of becoming a permanent part of the rolling stock’s history.

One could certainly argue that the Minister’s proposal possesses all the "sense of crisis" of a captain who, upon spotting an iceberg, decides the best course of action is to move the first-class deck chairs to the centre of the ship while inviting the steerage passengers to stand on the bow and push back. It is a truly avant-garde approach to crisis management that views the safety of the citizenry not as a universal right to be secured through infrastructure, but as a limited commodity that must be rationed out like wartime sugar.

To suggest that we should "save the one by sacrificing the other" when both parties are, in fact, holding valid tickets and a reasonable expectation of not being turned into a pancake, displays a level of strategic tone-deafness that is almost majestic. It rather misses the point of modern governance, which usually aims for the quaint goal of "everyone arriving in one piece," replacing it instead with a grim game of musical chairs where the prize is not a seat, but the privilege of not being a human shock absorber.

The Minister has managed to ignore the boring, obvious solutions—like, heaven forbid, making the trains actually stop before they hit each other—in favour of a sacrificial ritual that feels more at home in an ancient myth than a Ministry of Transport. It is the ultimate administrative shrug; a confession that because the state cannot possibly guarantee the safety of all, it shall instead curate a hierarchy of who gets to be the "fleshy buffer" for the national interest. One can only admire the sheer audacity of solving a technical failure by simply rebranding half the population as disposable safety equipment.

While we are busy debating whether the local gentleman should be reclassified as a high-density foam insert for the railway's benefit, one must not overlook the other marvel of modern logistics currently wreaking havoc on our roads: the Green SM taxi fleet. It is truly poetic that while we consider turning commuters into human shields on the tracks, we have already perfected the art of surface-level chaos through a taxi service whose drivers appear to treat the Highway Code as a mere set of whimsical suggestions rather than legal requirements. Indeed, transitioning from the railway's proposed "fleshy buffers" to the Green SM's actual role in recent collisions feels entirely natural, as both scenarios seem to share a common, avant-garde philosophy that treats public safety as an optional extra in the grand pursuit of administrative convenience.

So here's the tea, mate. When it comes to the electric cars used by the Green SM taxi fleet, it's not just a case of "they crash a lot" – it's more like being trapped in a low-budget action thriller, except it's not thrilling, it's just terrifying.

After that deadly incident in Bekasi that shocked the whole of Indonesia, the real issues with the VinFast VF e34–that green "eco-friendly" taxi that seems to have a knack for conking out without warning–finally came to light. Picture this: you're cruising along, minding your own business, and suddenly the car dies. Total blackout. And no, it's not because the battery ran out. It's because of a factory-fresh short circuit that makes the entire electrical system collapse like the final episode of a bad soap opera.

But here's what turns this from "slightly annoying" to "genuinely lethal": when the car dies, the brakes automatically lock on, and you cannot push the thing. Yes, you read that right. The car cuts out, the wheels lock up, the steering goes stiff as a dead parrot. So much for the good old-fashioned teamwork of getting out and pushing.

Why? Modern cars–both electric and petrol–use an electronic shifter. To shift into neutral so you can push it, you need electrical power. And when a proper short circuit happens, the power is gone completely. The gear stays stuck in Park or Drive, never Neutral. The result? A one-and-a-half-tonne sculpture sitting right in the middle of the road. Now imagine that happens on a railway crossing–like in Bekasi. Yep. Absolute carnage.

Now, to be fair, this isn't a problem with all electric cars. That auto-brake-when-stalling feature actually exists in many modern vehicles, even fancy ones. But what makes the VinFast special–and I'm using air quotes here – is that it has a meltdown frequency that rivals London's weekend Tube closures. Even in Vietnam, owners have been flooding forums with complaints. From loose battery bolts to random error messages lighting up the dashboard like a Christmas tree in July.

So here's the bottom line, bruv: it's not electric cars that are the problem. It's this particular model–the VinFast VF e34–acting like that flaky mate who ghosts you without so much as a text. The lethal combo of "stalls all the time" plus "can't be pushed when it stalls" is why Green SM keeps ending up as the sad headline of the day.

So next time someone says, "Oh, that's just bad luck," just reply: "Nah, that's not bad luck. That's bad engineering."

Right then, let's get ourselves a cuppa and unpack the most bonkers train disaster that's got all of Indonesia talking. It's like something out of a Michael Bay film, except this one's real – and properly tragic.

Act 1: It All Goes Pear-Shaped at the Ampera Crossing
Picture the scene: Monday evening, 27 April 2026, around 8:40 PM local time. A light turquoise electric taxi is trundling along the Ampera level crossing in East Bekasi. Now, this isn't just any crossing – this one doesn't have official railway barriers. The only thing there is a homemade gate put up by local residents.
The taxi – and we all know which bright green taxi company we're talking about here – is minding its own business when suddenly it dies. Right in the middle of the tracks. This isn't a case of running out of petrol, mind you – it's an electric car. The culprit? A short circuit or some other electrical gremlin in the vehicle's system.
The driver must have been bricking it. But here's the kicker: modern electric cars come with a "feature" that makes a bad situation infinitely worse. When they die completely, the brakes lock on and you cannot push the thing. So there you are, in the dark, on a railway crossing, with a one-and-a-half-tonne sculpture that won't budge. A perfect storm of utter carnage.

Act 2: The Commuter Train Takes the First Hit
A few moments later, in the distance, a KRL commuter train on the Kampung Bandan – Cikarang route is approaching at normal speed. The driver must have had a proper heart attack when he spotted a bloody taxi plonked on the tracks. He slams the emergency brake, but it's too late – he's already too close.
The KRL smacks into the taxi and drags it a good 100 metres down the line. Luckily, the taxi driver manages to escape with his life – he's immediately nicked by the police for questioning.
The KRL, now somewhat worse for wear, grinds to a complete halt near East Bekasi Station. Staff rush in to assess the damage and start evacuations. That's when the whole railway operation starts going completely tits up.

Act 3: When a Fancy Express Train rams from Behind
Now, this is the part that's absolutely gut-wrenching and has everyone up in arms.
On the same track, coming from behind, is the Argo Bromo Anggrek – a posh executive-class train running from Gambir to Surabaya. Fast, comfy, and famous for its speed. Reports say it was doing around 110 kilometres per hour.
In theory, there's a signalling system that should warn the Argo Bromo driver that there's a stationary KRL ahead. But for reasons unknown – and this is the million-rand question – communication and coordination failed spectacularly. The signalling system didn't give accurate info to the train coming from the rear.
So the Argo Bromo keeps barrelling along at full whack. The driver probably only realised something was wrong when it was already too late. He blasts the horn, slams the emergency brake… but it's no use.

Act 4: The Deadly Smash at East Bekasi Station
At around 8:45 PM, the Argo Bromo Anggrek slams into the back of the stationary KRL. The impact is absolutely horrendous. A YouTuber live-streaming from inside the Argo Bromo can be heard shouting "Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Oh God, we've hit something, yeah?
The damage is gruesome. The locomotive of the long-distance train punches right into the rear carriage of the KRL – specifically, the women-only carriage, which takes the worst of it. Nearly half of that carriage is crushed like a tin can under the nose of the Argo Bromo.
Passengers inside the KRL go into absolute panic mode. People are screaming, crying, begging for help. The lights go out, the carriage is mangled, some are trapped, others have been thrown out by the sheer force of the collision. One of the victims, a staff member of celebrity Alice Norin, later described how she was pinned down before being flung clean out of the carriage when the crash happened.

Final Act: The Toll and the Heartbreak
After a long and exhausting rescue operation, the final casualty figures keep changing as time goes on. The last confirmed numbers as of Wednesday lunchtime (29 April) are:

16 people dead – all women, all identified

90–91 injured, 48 of whom are still in intensive care, with the rest discharged

The 240 passengers on the Argo Bromo all survived – they were properly browned off but evacuated safely

The injured are rushed to various hospitals, including Bekasi City Hospital, Mitra Keluarga Hospital, Polri Kramat Jati Hospital, and Bela Hospital.

Behind the Scenes: Who's to Blame?
The police and the National Transportation Safety Committee (KNKT) are currently doing a proper deep dive into the case. Here's what's emerged so far:
It's not the driver's fault for ignoring a level crossing barrier – because there wasn't an official one. Only a homemade gate put up by locals.
The railway signalling system is now under the spotlight. Why didn't the Argo Bromo get any warning that a KRL was stopped ahead?
Green SM is in serious hot water. The Transport Minister has ordered a full audit and investigation into the taxi company and is checking all their depots.
The government has promised to urgently review 1,800 high-risk level crossings across Indonesia, including installing proper barriers and building flyovers.
So there you have it – the full chronological saga. From a taxi conking out on the tracks → KRL hits taxi → Argo Bromo hits KRL. All because of one fatal flaw in that electric car and one level crossing without a proper barrier. A tragedy that could have been prevented, leaving 16 families grieving their loved ones. Absolutely gutting. 😔

Bahasa

From “The Quacking Trio” to Environment

The phrase “The Brand represents Trust” carries a deeply philosophical meaning that extends far beyond marketing. At its core, it expresses the idea that a brand is not merely a logo, a product, or a name—it is a symbol of reliability and moral integrity. In philosophical terms, it reflects the relationship between appearance and essence: the visible identity of a brand must embody the invisible values that sustain it.

Trust, in this sense, becomes the ethical foundation of the brand’s existence. It is not something that can be manufactured overnight; it must be earned through consistent action, honesty, and empathy. When a brand represents trust, it signifies that people believe in its promises not because of persuasion, but because of proven character. The brand thus transforms into a social contract, where every interaction reaffirms mutual respect between creator and consumer.

From a broader perspective, this phrase also touches on the philosophy of authenticity. A brand that truly represents trust aligns its external image with its internal truth. It does not seek to manipulate perception but to reflect reality. In this way, the brand becomes a mirror of ethical conduct—a reminder that credibility is the highest form of capital in both commerce and human relationships.

Ultimately, “The Brand represents Trust” is a statement of faith in integrity: it suggests that the most enduring power of any institution or individual lies not in persuasion or prestige, but in the quiet strength of being trusted.

The group known as Trio Bebek, which brought together Jumhur Hidayat, Syahganda Nainggolan, and Haris Rusly Moti, became a distinctive voice in Indonesian public discourse during the years when Kaskus was a lively forum for political debate. Far from being a mere curiosity, the trio represented a courageous and principled strand of activism that challenged prevailing narratives and sought to defend democratic values. Their presence in discussions was marked by a willingness to speak truth to power, and their collaboration symbolised solidarity among intellectuals and activists who refused to be silenced.

The name itself, though light-hearted, came to embody a serious commitment to critique and reflection. On Kaskus and other platforms, Trio Bebek offered perspectives that resonated with many who felt marginalised by mainstream political currents. They were not simply critics of government policy; they were advocates for a more open, participatory, and accountable society. Their interventions often highlighted issues of democracy, freedom of expression, and social justice, and they did so in a manner that encouraged dialogue rather than division.

In retrospect, the Trio Bebek phenomenon illustrates how alternative spaces such as Kaskus provided fertile ground for voices that might otherwise have been excluded from the national conversation. It also shows how figures like Jumhur Hidayat, Syahganda Nainggolan, and Haris Rusly Moti carried their activist spirit into broader arenas, shaping debates that continue to influence Indonesian politics today. Their legacy is remembered positively as an example of how intellectual courage and collective action can inspire hope and resilience in the face of political adversity. [Note: There is no strong evidence that Jumhur Hidayat and his friends officially call themselves the “Duck Trio” on Kaskus; the term is more of a popular term that emerged among forum and alternative media users to identify three activist figures who often appear together.]

The appointment of Jumhur Hidayat as Minister of Environment by President Prabowo has been met with optimism and renewed hope among many Indonesians. His long-standing reputation as an activist and advocate for social justice provides a strong foundation for tackling the pressing environmental challenges Indonesia faces. Rather than being defined by past political clashes, which were largely the result of his principled opposition to the previous administration’s tendency to silence dissenting voices, Jumhur is now viewed as someone who brings resilience, courage, and independence of thought into government service.

His educational background and intellectual training are also regarded as assets that will enable him to approach environmental policy with both technical competence and strategic vision. Many believe that his experience in leadership and advocacy will help him to bridge the gap between grassroots concerns and global environmental standards, ensuring that Indonesia’s policies are not only aligned with international commitments but also rooted in the everyday realities of its citizens.

Public discourse has highlighted his emphasis on waste management and the adoption of global benchmarks as evidence of a forward-looking agenda. There is a growing expectation that he will champion environmental awareness as a cultural habit, encouraging Indonesians to see sustainability not merely as policy but as a way of life. In this light, his appointment is interpreted as a bold move by President Prabowo to bring a voice of integrity and activism into the cabinet, signalling that environmental stewardship will be treated as a national priority.

Jumhur Hidayat’s communication style as Minister of Environment has been warmly received as a refreshing departure from the more bureaucratic tone of his predecessor, Hanif Faisol. Jumhur speaks with the conviction of an activist who has spent decades engaging directly with the public, and this lends his words a sense of authenticity and urgency. His emphasis on waste management and global environmental standards is framed not merely as policy but as a cultural transformation, encouraging Indonesians to embrace sustainability as part of their daily lives. This approach resonates with many who see him as a figure capable of bridging grassroots concerns with international commitments, and his background as both an activist and an intellectual reinforces confidence that he can translate ideals into practical action.

Hanif Faisol, by contrast, was known for a more formal and administrative style of communication. His tenure was marked by careful adherence to procedure and a focus on institutional frameworks, which provided stability and continuity in environmental governance. While his manner was less emotive, it conveyed a sense of order and professionalism that reassured stakeholders about the consistency of policy implementation. For many, Hanif’s communication reflected the strengths of a seasoned bureaucrat, ensuring that environmental programmes were managed with discipline and structure.

The public now perceives the difference between the two approaches in a positive light. Hanif’s structured communication is remembered as laying the groundwork for institutional resilience, while Jumhur’s activist-infused style is celebrated as bringing passion, inclusivity, and renewed energy to the ministry. Together, these contrasting styles illustrate how Indonesia’s environmental leadership has evolved: from a foundation of bureaucratic stability to a new phase of dynamic engagement, where policy is not only administered but also championed with vision and conviction. This evolution is seen as a sign of progress, affirming that the ministry is both capable of maintaining order and inspiring transformation.

Jumhur Hidayat, in stepping into his role as Minister of Environment, faces challenges that are formidable yet filled with opportunity. Indonesia’s environmental issues are vast, ranging from waste management and deforestation to the urgent need for climate resilience. Rather than being seen as obstacles, these challenges are increasingly interpreted as a chance for Jumhur to demonstrate the strength of his activist background and his ability to translate conviction into policy. His communication style, rooted in authenticity and a deep connection with the public, positions him to inspire collective responsibility and to turn environmental stewardship into a shared national mission.

One of the most significant tests will be navigating the influence of powerful business interests, often referred to as oligarchs, whose activities have historically shaped environmental policy. Yet this is not viewed as a confrontation to be feared, but as an arena in which Jumhur’s courage and independence can shine. His history of standing firm against pressures and his reputation for resilience suggest that he is well equipped to engage these forces constructively, ensuring that economic growth is balanced with ecological sustainability. In fact, many observers believe that his activist spirit will enable him to negotiate with strength, bringing both accountability and innovation into the dialogue with industry leaders.

The optimism surrounding his appointment lies in the belief that Jumhur can transform these challenges into milestones of progress. By combining his intellectual training with his activist experience, he is expected to build bridges between grassroots communities and global environmental standards. Far from being overwhelmed, he is seen as someone who can harness Indonesia’s diversity of voices and interests to create policies that are both inclusive and forward-looking. In this light, the challenges ahead are not barriers but opportunities for renewal, and Jumhur’s leadership is anticipated to mark a new chapter in Indonesia’s environmental governance—one defined by integrity, vision, and hope.

Indonesia’s Ministry of Environment is currently focused on major issues such as waste management, pollution control, deforestation, and climate resilience, all of which are being approached with optimism under Jumhur Hidayat’s leadership. Rather than being seen as insurmountable problems, these challenges are increasingly framed as opportunities to transform environmental governance and strengthen Indonesia’s global standing.

The most immediate issue is waste management, which Jumhur has already highlighted as a priority. He has emphasised the need to align Indonesia’s practices with global standards, ensuring that waste is not only managed effectively but also integrated into a broader culture of sustainability. This is being presented as a chance to inspire behavioural change across society, turning environmental awareness into a daily habit rather than a distant policy goal.

Another pressing concern is pollution control, particularly in urban and industrial areas. Instead of being viewed as a daunting task, this is now seen as an opportunity to modernise Indonesia’s environmental monitoring systems and to strengthen cooperation between government, industry, and communities. The narrative is shifting towards innovation, with optimism that new technologies and stricter standards will reduce emissions and improve public health.

Deforestation and land use remain central issues, but they are increasingly framed in terms of sustainable development. The ministry is working to balance economic growth with ecological preservation, and Jumhur’s activist background is seen as an asset in ensuring that local communities are empowered to protect their forests. This approach is expected to foster inclusivity, making conservation a shared responsibility rather than a top‑down directive.

Finally, climate resilience is becoming a defining theme. Indonesia faces real risks from climate change, including rising sea levels and extreme weather, yet these are being treated as catalysts for progress. By strengthening international cooperation and adhering to global agreements, the ministry is positioning Indonesia as a proactive player in the global environmental movement. Jumhur’s commitment to integrating international standards into national policy is viewed positively, as it signals that Indonesia is ready to take a leadership role in climate diplomacy.

Taken together, these issues are not regarded as burdens but as opportunities for renewal. Under Jumhur Hidayat’s stewardship, the Ministry of Environment is expected to transform challenges into achievements, building a legacy of integrity, inclusivity, and forward‑looking vision. The optimism surrounding his appointment reflects a belief that Indonesia can not only overcome its environmental difficulties but also emerge as a model of sustainable governance in the region.

The book Melanjutkan Tersesat, atau Kembali ke Jalan yang Benar: Untuk Kedaulatan Bangsa dan Lingkungan Hidup yang Lebih Baik stands as a powerful reflection on Indonesia’s political and ecological journey. It is not merely a critique of past directions but a call to re‑centre national policy on sovereignty and sustainability. The title itself captures the tension between continuing along a misguided path and choosing to return to principles that honour the nation’s independence and protect its environment.

Written in the spirit of activism, the book urges Indonesians to recognise that ecological stewardship and national sovereignty are inseparable. It argues that reliance on external interests and oligarchic structures has led the country astray, while reaffirming that a renewed commitment to the people and the land can restore balance. Far from being pessimistic, the text radiates optimism, suggesting that Indonesia possesses both the resources and the will to correct its course.

The work also highlights the interconnectedness of democracy, social justice, and environmental responsibility. It insists that safeguarding forests, rivers, and biodiversity is not only a matter of ecological necessity but also a moral duty tied to the dignity of the nation. In this way, the book becomes more than a political manifesto; it is a vision for a future in which Indonesia thrives by embracing integrity, inclusivity, and resilience.

Today, with Jumhur Hidayat serving as Minister of Environment, the ideas expressed in this book gain renewed relevance. What was once a written appeal for change now resonates as a framework for policy, offering hope that the aspirations for sovereignty and ecological renewal can be translated into tangible achievements. The book is remembered positively as a testament to the enduring belief that Indonesia can reclaim its rightful path and build a better future for its people and its environment.

The book Melanjutkan Tersesat, atau Kembali ke Jalan yang Benar: Untuk Kedaulatan Bangsa dan Lingkungan Hidup yang Lebih Baik was published by WALHI (Wahana Lingkungan Hidup Indonesia) in 2025, making it both a political reflection and an environmental outlook tied to that year’s context.

The publication emerged as part of WALHI’s Environmental Outlook 2025, a comprehensive report that blended ecological analysis with political critique. It was released in January 2025, and its publisher, WALHI, is Indonesia’s most prominent environmental NGO, known for its consistent advocacy of ecological justice and sovereignty. The book’s timing was significant: it came at the end of the so‑called Nawacita era and the beginning of what was described as the Astacita period, marking a transition in Indonesia’s political landscape.

By situating the text within this moment, WALHI sought to highlight the urgency of reclaiming national sovereignty and protecting the environment from exploitation. The book’s dual focus on kedaulatan bangsa and lingkungan hidup was not presented as a lament but as a rallying cry. Its publication year, 2025, was chosen deliberately to frame the environmental challenges of the preceding years and to project a vision for the future.

The fact that WALHI itself served as the publisher adds weight to the book’s message. It was not simply an individual’s reflection but a collective statement from Indonesia’s leading environmental movement. This institutional backing reinforced the optimism of the text, suggesting that the ideas it contained were not only aspirational but also actionable, grounded in the work of activists and communities across the country.

In summary, the book was published in 2025 by WALHI, and it stands as both a critique of past missteps and a hopeful vision for Indonesia’s ecological and political renewal. Its year of release and its publisher are integral to understanding its authority and its enduring relevance.

The book contains passages that resonate with a spirit of renewal and determination. One of its key messages insists that “a nation cannot truly be free if its forests are destroyed and its rivers poisoned,” a line that ties ecological preservation directly to the dignity of sovereignty. Another memorable passage declares that “to continue on the wrong path is to betray the people, but to return to the right path is to honour their future,” which frames environmental reform not as a burden but as a moral obligation that uplifts the nation.

The book also stresses that sovereignty is inseparable from ecological responsibility, noting that “the independence of a people is measured not only by their politics but by their ability to protect the land that sustains them.” This sentiment transforms environmental stewardship into a patriotic duty, encouraging readers to see sustainability as part of national pride.

Taken together, these quotations build a message of optimism: Indonesia is portrayed as a country with the strength to correct its course, reclaim its sovereignty, and embrace a future where environmental protection is woven into the fabric of national identity. Far from despairing over past missteps, the book inspires confidence that renewal is possible and that the path towards integrity and sustainability is within reach.

The central message of Melanjutkan Tersesat, atau Kembali ke Jalan yang Benar: Untuk Kedaulatan Bangsa dan Lingkungan Hidup yang Lebih Baik is a call for Indonesia to reclaim its sovereignty by re‑aligning national development with ecological responsibility. The book argues that the nation has strayed too far into dependency on foreign interests and oligarchic structures, thereby compromising both democracy and the environment. It insists that true sovereignty cannot exist if forests are destroyed, rivers polluted, and communities marginalised, because the health of the land is inseparable from the dignity of the people.

Rather than dwelling on despair, the book builds an optimistic vision: it suggests that Indonesia has the strength, resources, and moral capacity to correct its course. By returning to “the right path,” the country can embrace a model of governance that honours its people, protects its environment, and asserts its independence in the global arena. The text, therefore, becomes more than a critique; it is a manifesto of hope, urging Indonesians to see ecological stewardship as a patriotic duty and sovereignty as a living principle.

Ultimately, the book’s main message is that national renewal lies in the union of democracy, justice, and sustainability. It affirms that Indonesia’s future will be brighter if it chooses integrity over exploitation, and trust in its own people over submission to external pressures. In this way, the book transforms the idea of sovereignty into a moral and ecological imperative, offering a vision of a nation that is both free and sustainable.

In conclusion, the philosophical maxim “The Brand represents Trust” finds a vivid embodiment in the legacy of Trio Bebek, or The Quacking Trio, under the leadership of Jumhur Hidayat. Their collective identity became a kind of moral brand, one that was not defined by commercial symbols but by the credibility of their activism. They represented integrity, courage, and a refusal to compromise, and in doing so they cultivated trust among those who sought a voice of honesty in public discourse.

This same principle of trust carries into Jumhur’s later role as Minister of Environment, where the vision articulated in the book Melanjutkan Tersesat, atau Kembali ke Jalan yang Benar: Untuk Kedaulatan Bangsa dan Lingkungan Hidup yang Lebih Baik gains renewed significance. The book’s insistence that sovereignty and ecological responsibility are inseparable mirrors the ethos of Trio Bebek, transforming critique into constructive optimism. Just as the Trio’s “brand” was built on trust in their words and actions, so too the book becomes a trusted framework for national renewal, urging Indonesia to reclaim its rightful path.

Thus, the threads converge: the activist spirit of Trio Bebek, the philosophical depth of “The Brand represents Trust,” and the visionary optimism of Jumhur’s book together form a coherent narrative. They affirm that trust is the foundation of both activism and governance, and that Indonesia’s sovereignty and environmental stewardship can only flourish when credibility, integrity, and authenticity are upheld. In this way, the brand of trust becomes not only a philosophical ideal but a living force in the nation’s journey towards a better future.

Bahasa

Petruk, Fake Manuscript and Betoro Kolo

In the sprawling theatre of cyberspace, Petruk emerges not as the rustic jester of old but as a modern influencer, his elongated frame crowned with the coveted blue tick of authority. He proclaims possession of a “digital sacred manuscript”—a relic that supposedly validates his stature for a decade—yet curiously, he never allows the public to glimpse it.

Instead of unveiling the manuscript, Petruk summons the Betoro Kolo, spectral entities born of algorithms, who swarm across the platforms with unearthly zeal. These Betoro Kolo, faceless and tireless, march in synchronised formation, each armed with a glowing device, their mission clear: to drown inquiry in noise.

“Any who question Petruk’s manuscript are liars and deceivers!” they bellow, their voices echoing through comment threads and timelines alike. The digital crowd splinters: some laugh at the absurdity, others scratch their heads in confusion, while a growing number harbour suspicion.

Petruk, ever the performer, forces a crooked grin, convinced that smoke and spectacle are more persuasive than the simple act of proof.

The Betoro Kolo cavort upon TikTok’s stage, choreographing dances, crafting memes, and launching the hashtag #SacredManuscriptAuthentic with relentless fervour. Yet irony reigns supreme: the louder the hashtag resounds, the more insistent the question becomes—“Where is the manuscript?”

The unseen puppeteer sighs, for the play has already shifted: it is no longer about truth, but about who can shout the loudest in the theatre of shadows.

The Betoro Kolo, clever but dim, launches their campaign with a barrage of hashtags, each more grandiose than the last, as though repetition alone could conjure truth. Petruk, delighted by the spectacle, retweets their clamour, mistaking noise for validation, and validation for proof. The hashtags multiply like weeds in a neglected garden: #SacredManuscriptAuthentic, #TrustPetruk, #ProofBeyondProof. Netizens, irrepressibly mischievous, respond with counter‑hashtags, parodying the parody: #WhereIsTheManuscript, #PetrukPapersPlease, #BetoroKoloCarnival. The digital battlefield becomes a clash of slogans, each side convinced that trending topics are the measure of reality.

Petruk beams, his elongated nose twitching with pride, as though the sheer volume of hashtags were evidence enough. Yet the irony bites: the louder the Betoro Kolo shout, the more the absence of the manuscript gnaws at the audience’s imagination.

The puppeteer, unseen but weary, observes that the play has become a contest of noise, a gamelan of hashtags clashing in dissonant rhythm. Truth, once a simple matter of showing the manuscript, now lies buried beneath layers of digital cacophony.

And so the Hashtag Wars rage on, a theatre where slogans masquerade as substance, and silence is drowned beneath the roar of Betoro Kolo’s endless chorus.

The Betoro Kolo, restless in their campaign, descend upon TikTok and Instagram, choreographing dances that proclaim Petruk’s manuscript without ever showing it. Their routines, absurd yet hypnotic, spread like wildfire, each step a declaration that noise is proof.

Petruk, ever eager, reposts their antics, mistaking virality for vindication, and vindication for truth. Critics, sharp‑tongued and inventive, respond with memes of their own, parodying Petruk’s evasions with biting humour.

The battlefield becomes a carnival of irony, where satire and spectacle clash in endless loops of digital performance. Betoro Kolo flood the feeds with GIFs and stickers, each bearing slogans of loyalty, each louder than the last.

Netizens, weary yet amused, remix the memes, turning Petruk’s crooked grin into a symbol of evasion. The manuscript, still unseen, becomes the central joke: a phantom relic endlessly invoked, never revealed.

The puppeteer, watching from the shadows, notes that the play has become a meme war, a contest of wit and absurdity. And so the Meme Battlefield rages, a theatre where laughter and suspicion intertwine, and truth is buried beneath layers of parody.

Petruk, ever conscious of appearances, cultivates his crooked grin as though it were a brand, a mask of confidence worn to conceal uncertainty. He insists that belief is stronger than proof, that faith in his persona outweighs the absence of the manuscript. Betoro Kolo seize upon this grin, transforming it into stickers, GIFs, and profile pictures, a digital emblem of loyalty. The grin spreads across platforms, replicated endlessly, until it becomes a symbol not of joy but of evasion.

Netizens, sharp‑eyed, begin to question why a smile must substitute for substance, why laughter is offered in place of evidence. Petruk, undeterred, amplifies his grin, convinced that repetition will silence doubt, that spectacle will suffice. Betoro Kolo, obedient as ever, floods the feeds with smiling Petruks, each one louder, brighter, more insistent than the last. Yet the irony deepens: the more the grin is displayed, the more it reveals its hollowness, a mask stretched thin over absence.

The puppeteer, weary but amused, notes that the play has become a theatre of smiles, where confidence is feigned and truth deferred. And so the Influencer’s Smile reigns, a crooked emblem of persuasion, masking the void where the manuscript ought to be.

The Betoro Kolo, emboldened after thinking he had won the meme arena, evolved into an army of bots, multiplying with mechanical precision on every platform. Their voices, once human‑like, now become automated echoes, programmed to repeat slogans without pause or thought. Petruk, delighted by the sheer scale, boasts of his loyal following, mistaking artificial numbers for genuine devotion. The feeds swell with identical messages, each one a copy of the last, a chorus of algorithms drowning out dissent. Netizens, sharp and sceptical, begin to notice the uncanny rhythm, the hollow cadence of manufactured loyalty.

Yet Petruk clings to the illusion, convinced that quantity alone can silence the nagging absence of the manuscript. Betoro Kolo march like digital soldiers, their formation flawless, their purpose singular: to overwhelm inquiry with repetition.

The puppeteer, observing from the shadows, remarks that the play has become a machine, a theatre where ghosts of code masquerade as conviction. Truth, once a simple relic to be shown, now flickers like a faint signal lost amidst the static of automation. And so the Algorithmic Army reigns, a legion of spectral bots, loyal not to truth but to noise, their endless chorus masking the void at the heart of Petruk’s claim.

Amidst the clamour of bots and hashtags, independent voices begin to rise, weaving parables of the missing manuscript with wit and defiance. These voices, unaligned with Petruk’s chorus, craft stories that expose the absurdity of endless noise without substance. They speak of shadows where proof should stand, of relics invoked but never revealed, of faith demanded without evidence.

Betoro Kolo, ever vigilant, descend upon them, labelling dissenters as traitors, enemies of the digital realm.

Petruk, emboldened by their aggression, nods approvingly, mistaking suppression for strength. Yet the satire sharpens: the more dissent is silenced, the more suspicion festers, the more the absence of the manuscript becomes undeniable. Netizens, curious and amused, begin to share the counter‑narratives, remixing them into memes and stories that spread beyond Petruk’s reach.

The Betoro Kolo redouble their attacks, but their fury only amplifies the voices they seek to erase. The puppeteer, watching with weary eyes, notes that the play has shifted once more: dissent reframed as disloyalty, loyalty demanded at the expense of truth.

And so the Counter‑Narrative thrives, a chorus of irony and resistance, mocking Petruk’s evasions and exposing the hollow theatre of Betoro Kolo’s defence.

Social media, once a forum for dialogue, transforms into a carnival, its rhythms echoing like gamelan struck in chaotic dissonance. Betoro Kolo orchestrates the spectacle, unleashing fireworks of hashtags, memes, and viral dances that dazzle but never enlighten. Petruk, centre‑stage, twirls amidst the clamour, pretending mastery over the chaos, his crooked grin stretched wider than ever. The feeds erupt with digital confetti, slogans raining down like coloured paper, each one proclaiming loyalty without substance.

Netizens, half amused and half exhausted, watch the carnival unfold, unsure whether to laugh or lament. The manuscript, invoked in every chant, remains unseen, a phantom relic hidden behind the curtain of spectacle. Betoro Kolo, tireless performers, choreograph ever louder routines, their noise swelling until silence itself seems impossible.

Petruk revels in the illusion, mistaking the carnival’s brightness for proof, its clamour for conviction. The puppeteer, weary yet wry, observes that the play has become a festival of noise, a theatre where truth is drowned beneath endless performance. And so the Festival of Noise reigns, dazzling and hollow, a pageant of distraction masking the void at the heart of Petruk’s claim.

The endless carnival of noise begins to wear upon the audience, its brilliance fading into monotony, its clamour into fatigue. Netizens, once amused, now scroll past Petruk’s proclamations with weary eyes, their laughter dulled by repetition. Some abandon the digital theatre altogether, seeking quieter corners where dialogue still breathes. Others remain, not out of conviction, but out of habit, watching the spectacle as one watches a soap opera long past its prime.

Petruk, oblivious to the waning interest, continues to insist upon the manuscript’s existence, offering slogans in place of substance. Betoro Kolo, tireless as ever, amplify his words, their chorus swelling louder, brighter, more desperate. Yet the louder they shout, the more hollow their cries sound, echoing against the thinning patience of the crowd. Netizens begin to parody their exhaustion, crafting memes of yawning faces and empty slogans, mocking the futility of endless noise.

The puppeteer, watching with a sigh, notes that the play has become a theatre of fatigue, where spectacle breeds cynicism rather than belief. And so the Weariness of the Crowd settles in, a quiet rebellion against Petruk’s clamour, a reminder that even noise cannot sustain attention forever.

Beneath the roar of hashtags and the glare of memes, a quieter current begins to stir, a murmur threading through the digital crowd. Netizens, fatigued by spectacle, start to whisper questions: “Where is the manuscript?” “Why has it never been shown?”

These whispers, subtle yet persistent, slip past the noise, lodging themselves in the minds of those who once cheered. Betoro Kolo, alarmed, attempts to drown the murmurs with louder slogans, but their clamour only sharpens the contrast. Petruk, sensing unease, forces his crooked grin wider, insisting that doubt is treachery, that silence is loyalty.

Yet the whispers grow, spreading like smoke through the theatre, intangible but impossible to contain. Netizens begin to share screenshots, threads, and parables, each one a reminder of the manuscript’s absence. The chorus of doubt, though softer than the carnival’s roar, proves more enduring, more unsettling.

The puppeteer, watching with a knowing smile, notes that the play has shifted yet again: noise cannot silence doubt, for doubt thrives in the spaces between. And so the Whisper of Doubt lingers, a quiet rebellion against Petruk’s spectacle, a reminder that truth cannot be conjured by noise alone.

The carnival of Petruk’s performance, once dazzling, begins to falter, its rhythms stumbling like a gamelan struck off‑beat. Netizens, weary of endless slogans, turn away, their attention drifting to fresher spectacles beyond Petruk’s reach. Betoro Kolo, desperate, unleash louder campaigns, but their clamour echoes hollow in the thinning theatre. Petruk, clinging to his crooked grin, insists that the manuscript exists, though his words now sound brittle, worn by repetition.

The feeds, once ablaze with colour, fade into monotony, their confetti of slogans dissolving into silence. Netizens parody the collapse, crafting memes of empty stages and vanished relics, mocking the futility of Petruk’s insistence. The manuscript, invoked yet unseen, becomes the symbol of absence itself, a void at the centre of the spectacle. Betoro Kolo, exhausted, falter in their chorus, their voices thinning, their loyalty fraying.

The puppeteer, with a weary smile, notes that the play has reached its turning point: spectacle cannot endure without substance. And so the Collapse of Spectacle unfolds, a theatre crumbling under its own noise, leaving only silence where proof should have been.

The theatre, once ablaze with spectacle, now stands in uneasy silence, its audience restless, its illusions fraying. Netizens, weary of slogans and smiles, demand substance, their questions sharper, their patience gone.

Petruk, cornered, insists again upon the manuscript, his crooked grin trembling under the weight of expectation. Betoro Kolo rally in desperation, unleashing their final chorus of loyalty, but their voices ring hollow, brittle echoes of past fervour. The feeds, stripped of colour, reveal the emptiness at their core: a relic invoked but never revealed, a promise perpetually deferred. Netizens, emboldened, craft parables of betrayal, memes of vanished proof, stories of faith squandered.

Petruk, trembling beneath the mask, clings to spectacle, but the theatre demands truth, not noise. Betoro Kolo falter, their loyalty fractured, their chorus dissolving into silence.

The puppeteer, with solemn clarity, declares that the play has reached its reckoning: spectacle without substance collapses beneath its own weight. And so the Reckoning arrives, a moment of truth deferred too long, exposing the void at the heart of Petruk’s claim.

When the spectacle collapses, and the reckoning fades, only silence remains, a silence heavier than all the slogans combined. Petruk, once radiant in his crooked grin, stands alone upon the empty stage, the manuscript still unseen, the promise unfulfilled. Betoro Kolo, their voices spent, dissolved into shadows of code, relics of a theatre that mistook noise for truth. Netizens, wiser for the chaos, carry with them the lesson that spectacle without substance is but a hollow flame.

The puppeteer, closing the curtain, whispers that every play must end, and that truth, though delayed, always outlasts noise.

Bahasa

Buzzer Politics in Indonesia (2)

The case of buzzers spreading false accusations of blasphemy against former Vice President Jusuf Kalla illustrates just how pernicious and destructive digital disinformation can be when religion is instrumentalised for political purposes. The cruelty lies not only in the personal defamation of a respected statesman but also in the way such fabricated narratives exploit religious sensitivities to inflame public anger. Because blasphemy is an issue that touches deeply held beliefs, false claims of this nature are particularly potent in mobilising outrage, and buzzers deliberately weaponise that emotional resonance to destabilise political opponents or delegitimise figures who are otherwise seen as moderate and conciliatory.

The impact of these campaigns is twofold. On the one hand, they corrode trust in democratic institutions by making citizens doubt the integrity of leaders and the fairness of political competition. On the other, they fracture social cohesion by sowing suspicion and hostility among communities, turning religion into a divisive rather than unifying force. Scholars such as Marcus Mietzner have shown that the use of buzzers in Indonesia has normalised toxic practices in political communication, while Fossati and Kawamura highlight how digital disinformation—often infused with religious rhetoric—functions as an “authoritarian innovation” that undermines pluralism. In this context, the false accusations against Jusuf Kalla are emblematic of a broader trend: the deliberate manipulation of religious sentiment through digital channels to achieve short‑term political gains at the expense of long‑term democratic health.

The cruelty, therefore, is not only in the personal harm inflicted on Jusuf Kalla’s reputation but also in the collective damage done to Indonesia’s democratic fabric. By exploiting religion in this way, buzzers erode both the moral integrity of politics and the trust that citizens place in democratic processes.

4.2 The 2017 Jakarta Gubernatorial Election and SARA-Based Polarisation

The 2017 Jakarta Pilkada stands as one of the most dramatic episodes in the history of buzzer deployment in Indonesia. The contest between Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (Ahok) and Anies Baswedan was marked by the mass dissemination of content laden with SARA (ethnicity, religion, race, and inter-group relations) sensitivities across social media, with the suspected involvement of organised buzzer networks.

Research by Mietzner (2020), in Populist Azariah: Jokowi's Long Decade in Power and the Threat to Democracy and related articles, analyses how the blasphemy allegations brought against Ahok were artificially amplified by digital networks exploiting religious sentiment as a political weapon. Mietzner argues that this was not spontaneous organic mobilisation, but a structured and premeditated operation.

These findings are corroborated by Fossati and Kawamura (2020), in their article Islam, Partisan Identity and Electoral Behaviour in Indonesia, which demonstrates how religious narratives were instrumentalised through digital channels—including buzzers and messaging applications such as WhatsApp—to influence electoral choices. This process not only shaped the outcome of the Pilkada but left deep and lasting scars upon the social fabric of Jakarta and, more broadly, of Indonesian society.

4.3 Buzzers in the 2019 General Election: Scalability and Institutionalisation

If the 2017 Pilkada represented a large-scale experimental deployment, the 2019 simultaneous general elections (Presidential and Legislative) constituted the arena in which the use of buzzers became institutionalised. The contest between Joko Widodo and Prabowo Subianto was accompanied by massive and organised cyber operations from both camps.

A study by DW Akademie (2020), Media Use and Information Literacy in Indonesia, found that more than 60 per cent of respondents across various Indonesian cities reported having received information that subsequently proved to be false, the great majority of it via WhatsApp and Facebook—the two platforms that served as the primary theatre of buzzer activity.

Research by Juditha (2020), published in the journal Pekommas, analysed patterns of disinformation dissemination during the 2019 elections and identified patterns consistent with coordinated buzzer activity: high posting volumes within short timeframes, coordinated hashtag usage, and inorganic interaction patterns. These findings accord with the detection methodology developed by Ferrara et al. (2016) in their influential paper, The Rise of Social Bots published in Communications of the ACM.

 

4.4 Industrial Context: The Buzzer Ecosystem in Indonesia

One of the most alarming aspects of the buzzer phenomenon in Indonesia is the degree to which it has become institutionalised. Drone Emprit, the social media analytics platform founded by Ismail Fahmi, has extensively documented how buzzer operations in Indonesia function as a structured industry. Fahmi (2019), in various Drone Emprit reports, demonstrates the existence of networks of accounts operating in a coordinated fashion, exhibiting behaviour indicative of centralised management.

Drone Emprit's findings are corroborated by the Oxford Internet Institute. Bradshaw, Neudert, and Howard (2019), in Government Troops and Political Operatives, classify Indonesia as one of the countries with a high level of computational influence operation capacity, with the active involvement of both state and private actors.

The buzzer industry in Indonesia does not operate in a vacuum. It is connected to an ecosystem of digital consultants, opinion research firms, and even mainstream PR agencies offering 'digital reputation management' services as a euphemism for buzzword operations. This indicates that the problem in Indonesia is not merely one of rogue individuals, but of the institutionalisation of opinion manipulation as a practice deeply embedded within the political communications industry.

 

4.5 Buzzer Attacks on Press Freedom and Critical Voices

One of the most dangerous manifestations of the buzzer phenomenon in Indonesia is its deployment against journalists, activists, and academics. The Koalisi Lawan Buzzer (Anti-Buzzer Coalition), formed by various civil society organisations, has documented hundreds of cases in which individuals were subjected to coordinated attacks on social media following the publication of critical reporting or commentary directed at those in power.

Reporters Without Borders ranked Indonesia 108th out of 180 countries in its 2022 World Press Freedom Index, citing organised digital intimidation as one of the primary contributing factors. Research by Wahyudi (2021), in his doctoral thesis at the University of Melbourne, analyses how buzzer attacks against investigative journalists in Indonesia produce a demonstrable chilling effect: editorial boards engage in self-censorship, sources become reluctant to speak on record, and journalists contemplate abandoning the profession.

The most egregious cases include coordinated attacks against journalists covering corruption at the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) and in independent media, environmental activists opposing large infrastructure projects, and minority religious figures advocating for peace amidst sectarian polarisation. The consistent patterns observed across these cases—coordinated hashtag campaigns, rapid amplification, and suspicious account profiles—point unmistakably to planned buzzer operations.

4.6 Regulation and Law Enforcement: A Troubling Lacuna

Indonesia possesses several legal instruments that could, in principle, be deployed to address buzzer activity, including the Electronic Information and Transactions Law (UU ITE, Law No. 11 of 2008, as amended) and various regulations concerning the dissemination of hoaxes. However, Sukma Ridwan (2020), in his analysis published in Jurnal Hukum dan Peradilan, finds that the implementation of these instruments has been profoundly selective: they have been used far more frequently to criminalise criticism of the government than to prosecute buzzers who disseminate pro-establishment disinformation.

This paradox reflects precisely what Levitsky and Ziblatt (2018), in their seminal work How Democracies Die, identify as a hallmark of contemporary democratic backsliding: the employment of legitimate legal instruments for anti-democratic ends. When the UU ITE is more commonly wielded to silence dissent than to protect the public information sphere, buzzer activity goes increasingly unchecked, deprived of any meaningful legal disincentive.

V. ETHICAL DIMENSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS FOR DEMOCRACY

 

5.1 Buzzers as a Violation of Public Epistemic Autonomy

From a philosophical standpoint, the deployment of buzzers constitutes a violation of the epistemic autonomy of the public—the right of individuals to form beliefs and preferences based on unmanipulated information. Christiano (2008), in The Constitution of Equality: Democratic Authority and Its Limits, argues that democratic legitimacy is contingent upon the capacity of citizens to participate in genuine public deliberation. Buzzers, by manipulating the informational landscape, systematically undermine the prerequisite conditions for such legitimacy.

Habermas (1984), in the theory of communicative action and the conception of the public sphere elaborated in The Theory of Communicative Action and The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, stipulates that legitimate deliberation must be free from strategic domination and manipulation. Buzzers are the antithesis of this ideal: they introduce a strategic logic (the achievement of ends through manipulation) into a sphere that ought to be governed by communicative rationality (the achievement of consensus through honest argumentation).

 

5.2 Systemic Implications for the Quality of Democracy

Diamond (2015), in his influential article in the Journal of Democracy, warned of a global 'democratic recession' in which various democracies experience an erosion of quality even whilst formally retaining electoral procedures. The buzzer phenomenon is precisely one of the mechanisms of such erosion: it enables democracy to appear normal at the surface—elections are held, speech ostensibly remains free—whilst the quality of public deliberation that constitutes the core of substantive democracy has been gravely compromised.

Levitsky and Ziblatt (2018), in How Democracies Die identify attacks upon independent media and the manipulation of public information as two of the four principal indicators of democratic backsliding. In the Indonesian context, both indicators are present in the buzzer phenomenon: buzzers erode the credibility of independent journalism by disseminating unfounded allegations of bias, and they actively manipulate public information through organised disinformation campaigns.

VI. CONCLUSION: SAFEGUARDING DEMOCRACY IN THE INFORMATION AGE

The foregoing analysis demonstrates that political buzzers are not merely an irritant in the communicative landscape—they are a systemic threat to the very foundations of democracy. From a global perspective, buzzers corrupt the public information ecology, intensify polarisation, endanger electoral integrity, and silence critical voices. In the specific context of Indonesia, the phenomenon has reached a degree of institutionalisation that is deeply troubling, with roots embedded in the broader structures of political-business oligarchy.

Addressing the buzzer threat effectively requires a multi-layered approach engaging a range of stakeholders. First, the regulation of digital platforms must be substantially strengthened, so that technology companies are held accountable for manipulation that occurs on their platforms, following the model currently being developed by the European Union through the Digital Services Act. Second, transparency in political advertising and influence operations must be mandated, enabling the public to identify when the narratives they consume are the product of manufactured campaigns.

Third, substantial investment in digital and media literacy education is required at every level of schooling. This responsibility cannot be delegated to markets or platforms alone—it is a duty of the state and of civil society. Fourth, the legal protection of journalists, activists, and critical voices from buzzer attacks must be consistently enforced, supported by a clear and impartially applied legal framework.

Finally, following the argument of Cohen (2019) in Democracy and Other Neoliberal Fantasies: Communicative Capitalism & Left Politics, we must acknowledge that the problem of buzzers cannot be disentangled from deeper questions concerning the political economy of digital media, the distribution of power within society, and the collective commitment to democratic values. To resist buzzers is, in the end, to participate in a broader and more fundamental struggle to defend and deepen democracy itself.

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Note: This essay has been written as an academic analysis drawing upon verifiable scholarly sources. All references cited are published works accessible through academic libraries or international journal databases. Indonesian-language sources are cited in their original titles with English translations provided in brackets.

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